


The Torso

by Steggellettea94



Series: 13 Ghosts Rewrite [2]
Category: Original Work, Thir13en Ghosts (2001)
Genre: F/M, Mental Health Issues, Racism, Schizophrenia, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-20 01:36:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17612960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steggellettea94/pseuds/Steggellettea94
Summary: Barnard Torrance was a good man who lived through unfortunate circumstances. When his life is destroyed by a violent person, he has to decide: is revenge worth it all?





	The Torso

**Author's Note:**

> This is a rewrite of the movie Thirteen Ghosts. Each short story will follow one of the ghosts, how they died, and how they were taken to the house. The Thirteen Ghosts Wiki says the First Born Son is represented by Aires, the ram; as a bonus - for lack of better word - twelve of the stories will contain the symbol of the astrological zodiac - a ram, a bull, twins, ect.
> 
> These are my interpretations of the Black Zodiac - if I had been given the premise of Thirteen Ghosts and the Black Zodiac, what I would do with it. It's not so much a fanfic as it is a rewrite.
> 
> Not beta-read. Not sensitivity read.
> 
> Word count: 8,676

There are a few rules city pedestrians can agree upon. Do not look like a tourist; avoid taking out maps, looking lost, and taking pictures of famous locations. Be vigilant: keep your bag in front of you or your hand on your bag, watch where you’re going and who you are with. Don’t make eye contact with the homeless.

“How you doin’, man? Need help or somethin’?”

The last one was a bit harder to follow when one ran into the large, gap-tooth grinned Bernard Torrance - Torry to his friends - Wright.

A young man looked up from where he had been fidgeting with the parking meter. He had to crane his neck up to look Torry in the eye. He blinked, more than a little thrown off by the man’s cheerful demeanor. “N-no,” he mumbled, looking back down again. He hit the parking meter with a closed fist, hoping it would finally just take his quarter and let him go.

“Hate to bother you, man, but, uh, that’s a bitch right there.” Torry took a step forward and raised his fist. The smaller man violently flinched. He didn’t look at him as he brought his fist down with a loud thunk! onto the side of the old green parking meter. It made a strange noise like it was starting up, and then spit out his ticket. Torry ripped the ticket off and handed it to the man, who gazed at it in shock and awe, like he was handed Willy Wonka’s golden ticket.

“Th-thank you,” he stuttered.

Torry shrugged. “No problem. Dis meter not always workin’, but nobody come out to fix it. I try to tell ‘em, but most just tell me to fuck off, ya know? Ain’t nobody want to listen to some homeless dude.” He patted the man on the back, seeming to snap him out of whatever awe-inspired state he was in. He quickly smiled and ran off to his car. Torry grinned after him, nodded to something off to the side, before turning and heading down the street to the library.

 

***

 

Torry stood outside the library, grinning up at it. He loved it here, loved it since he was a kid. He made a point of coming here once a day, every day, just to look around at everything. Maybe check out a book or two. It was a lot harder when he had a job. Guess that’s one of the benefits of not having a place to work - you can do what you want, when you want. Usually. He still made a point to go home every night - a homeless man with a home, heh, funny - go to his sister’s house, have a meal, take his meds, a shower, and sleep. He was lucky to have her. Hated relying on her and her husband, but lucky all the same. Torry fixed his green beanie more tightly onto his head. Now if only he had enough sense, some focus, to apply - fill out job applications. His grin widened a little. It wasn’t focus he needed; he needed someone just to hire him, warts and all. Torry laughed a little, startling a small woman walking into the library. He flashed her his toothy grin, which she shakily returned. He put his hands into his baggy jean pockets, sighed - an action which pushed his large chest out, raised his shoulders, lifted him onto the balls of his feet before settling back down, relaxed. He continued to stare, a little dreamily at the building, just as he did every day.

The library was a beautiful building. It might not have been the most glamorous, but there was no denying that the architect put a lot of thought into the design. It’s basic shape was a cube - no point in fixing what ain’t broke, that’s what his mama always said - held together with brick, mortar, and a little granite. There were thirteen steps to the top, thirteen regular sized, smaller steps, and one large one, a landing. Can’t have thirteen of anything, that’s bad luck. Very bad luck, mama. The architect was smart enough to add that landing, but not smart enough to add a ramp - that had to come later, some fifty or so years after the building had first been constructed. They had tried to match the aesthetic of the stairs, but it looked too new. They should have roughed it up a bit before opening it up to everyone.  
The building had two levels available to the public and one that was strictly offices. Windows - big and clear despite that number of hands that touched them - looked out onto the streets below. The doors were large - big enough for giants to walk through, small giants, though. Torry liked to think giants were over ten feet. Twenty feet was scarier than ten. Imagine Jack looking up at a twenty foot tall giant versus a ten footer. Scared shitless no matter what, but the hand on the twenty footer would be way more intimidating, all encompassing, deadly. Fee fi fo fum.

The only unique thing about this building were the statues, the little busts, that lined the steps. The architect had decided to add a bust on either side of the staircase, each representing a famous author and their corresponding genre. Thirteen steps plus a landing made for twenty-eight busts plus one large one in the entryway of the architect himself, some old white guy named Bartholomew Winterhouse. Well, his bust wasn’t white - it was copper or some other red material. He just looked white. And that name, pretty damn white sounding. Torry thought he once read a book about Mr. Winterhouse, but he couldn’t remember. If he had it was before the accident, and he couldn’t remember much before the accident.

Torry climbed the steps to the library, slowly, methodically. He greeted each bust with a “Hey, how you doin’, man, good to see you. No bird shit on ya, I see!” and “Ma’am, you look lovely today, yes, lookin’ good. Fine little golden statue you are.” The busts made no reply. In the back of his mind, he knew it was strange, greeting inanimate objects, just as he knew whenever he did so, he received odd looks from passerbys. He didn’t care. God would judge him. No one here had the ability to do so.

He reached the top of the steps and pushed passed the doors. They were open, wide open, like the arms of a friend. He smiled at the female security officer - Dana Blechman, nice lady - who returned his smile. Still good with the ladies. Always good. Torry walked up to the information booth, just inside the doors. He didn’t need anything; he practically lived at this library - hell, they should hire him he was here so often, knew so much about the place. That would help him. He once asked about it, if there were any openings. The woman behind the counter - she had been a cute thing, reminded him of his niece, Sharkeisha - no, that was his cousin - niece’s name started with an A...Alayah? No. Allyson? Shit, he’d remember it eventually. Yeah, the cute woman behind the counter, she had told him unfortunately the library only hires those with a MA in library sciences. He had laughed and asked her what kind of a degree that was. He had started talking about book nerds in lab coats, reading Shakespeare and pouring chemicals into vials, someone shouting that this concoction would prove that Poe was writing some racist shit in that orangutan story. The lady librarian had laughed at that. He liked her. Kara, her name was. Why did that name come easier to him than his own goddamn niece? Ariel? Alexis? Fuck, what white girl name did his sister give that girl?

He liked Kara and all of them at the library because they were cool. That’s how he would say it. An academic or one of those Freud doctors - psychologists? Psychiatrists? - would probably have phrased it as “Mr. Wright was ostracized as a semi-homeless man, stereotyped to be unclean, insane, and grossly uneducated. The library offered him a safe space off the streets, a place where his idle brain and hands could find some use, while the librarians looked passed his old clothes and slight smell and saw the intellectual that he was, a well-read man in an unfortunate circumstance.” Maybe a little duller; scientists had a tendency to not use language to their advantage, choosing form over function in their writings.

Torry approached the booth and quickly scanned the line of people behind the desk. Kara was here today, all right. So was...Jimmy Gambino, Gracelle, and...he squinted at the end of the line. Someone new. He didn’t recognize that shock of blue - turquoise - hair or those ugly-ass white framed glasses. He needed to introduce himself. Proper.

He waited in line. There weren’t too many people there. Most who came to the library knew what they wanted and didn’t bother with the information booth. Torry smiled at those walking by; they often returned the smiles or stopped to say hi before going left - science fiction and fantasy - right - children and young adult - or upstairs - everything under the sun. A couple small kids - looked to be about three and five - ran up to him. Their mama followed a couple feet behind, bags under her eyes, and hair up in a haphazard bun. Her stomach and chest were swollen.

Torry crouched down and grinned. “How you doin’, there?” he asked the three year old.

The kid didn’t answer, instead yammering about their morning, getting dressed, eating breakfast, coming here. A whole lot of nothing. Torry kept grinning, nodding along with the kid. A couple of “ah yeah,” and “I know that,” and the kid was grinning along with him. Kids liked that. It didn’t matter if you had any clue what they were saying, as long as you pretended, they were on cloud freaking nine. His niece and nephew were a lot like that. Especially his nephew, always talking up a storm. Mitchell? No, no? What was his daddy’s name? Mishawn? No - that’s way off. Michael! Yeah, Michael. Sweet kid, like this little guy here.

He looked at the older kid - two boys, mama must have her hands full - and said, “What are you here for, man? Spider-man or somethin’?”

The bigger boy kept his eyes down, shaking his head. Shy little guy, huh. Torry kept his distance - shy people liked their space - and tried again. “Nah, you wouldn’t like him. You don’t look like the Spidey type, though - ya know, Spidey’s black now!” The kid glanced up, eyes wide. “Yeah, Miles Something. Some M sounded name. Not good with names, here. But yeah, he’s a black kid. Might wanna check him out. My nephew - his name’s Michael. Michael Alexander Templeton Junior - MJ - he likes the spider-kid. But you -” Torry looked the kid up and down, pursing his lips for a second before breaking into a megawatt smile - “you like that magic shit - shoot, crap, right?” The kid finally looked up, into Torry’s face. Jackpot. “Harry Potter, that kid’s more your style, yeah?” He nodded, cautious and unsure. “Now I never read no Harry Potter, but my sister’s kids love him. And I seem them movies, great stuff, great stuff. Books probably better.” He nodded again, a little more sure. “You know, my shit - crap, don’t you start swearing, no copying me - my favorite was uh...Tol...Tolkien. That guy with the hobbits and shi - stuff. I liked that. Tolkien and Beagle and, uh, Christ what was his name...Pullman and Pratchett. Ya read their stuff?” The kid shook his head. His eyes were wide, absorbing everything Torry said. Their mom stood behind him, a hand on her enormous belly, rubbing gently. She looked cautious but had a strained sense of calm around her, like she was trying to appear relaxed around this big guy talking to her young boys. Torry couldn’t blame her. “You should, you should. Hobbit, and uh, Last Unicorn by Beagle, and...Discworld by Pratchett. They the best. Go and check them out and let me know what you think.” The boy nodded, his little brother nodding along with him, and they took off.

Torry laughed. He smiled at the mom and stood up. The line had all but disappeared. He watched the mom follow after her boys in the children’s section. They should find all those books there, if not...he might have to talk. Actually…

He approached the last person at the information booth. Blue hair. It was pretty. They were pretty. Pale skin, no zits or anything, a little soft looking, like a chubby Bambi, cute little deer with round cheeks and bright eyes. Torry grinned and leaned on the counter.

“Are you here?” he asked.

Blue Hair looked a little confused. Torry leaned in - not too close, don’t wanna appear like a creep - and read the name tag. Charlotte. Pretty name.

“Miss Bronte - that what your mama and daddy have in mind? Or was they thinking about E.B. White?”

Charlotte blinked, stunned. “Uh, no, no. It’s my grandmother’s name.” Her voice was soft, light. “She passed shortly before I was born. I uh, never really thought about it, but yeah, Charlotte Bronte and, uh Charlotte’s Web. Usually I, uh, get one or the other. Can I help you with anything today, sir?”

‘Sir.’ He liked that. Not in a weird way. He had been calling people sir and ma’am his entire life; felt nice to have it turned on him. Being treated with respect. “Well, I got a couple things. First, is you really here?”

“Yes?”  
“Gonna sound rude here, Miss Bronte, but the question makes me suspicious.”

“I don’t know, uh, what you mean by that question.”

Torry laughed a little. Course she wouldn’t understand. Well, he shouldn’t judge. Man don’t judge - that’s God’s job. His sister understood to an extent, but she didn’t really understand. Sympathy versus empathy. Something like that. “Sometimes I see people that I saw passing by on the street,” he explained. “I see some guy with a pretty red bird and suddenly I’m seeing him all over - the diner, this here library, the train tracks. And he ain’t really there. Everybody around me say so.”

“Oh. Oh, no I’m, uh, I’m here. Just started today.”

“Well, alright, good.” He turned behind him. No one was in line behind him. And Eamon wasn’t there either. Good. Just once today, after he helped that nervous kid at the meter. Once is good. More than that...not so good. And he was having a good day. “Gonna be a good day,” he mumbled, more to himself.

“Is there anything else I can help you with…?”

He turned his famous gap-toothed grin on her. “Bernard Torrance Wright Junior. Everyone calls me Torry.”

“Torry,” she said, lips quirking a little. “Parents name you after, uh, Jack and Danny Torrance from The Shining?”

He laughed, loud and deep. Man, she was funny. Like his sister and niece - they were quick. “Nah, but you’d think that, wouldn’t you? No offence. That was smart. Nah, it’s my daddy’s name - don’t know where Torrance came from except his mama. Funny thing is my sister’s name, her name’s Susannah.”

“Like Susannah Dean?”

“Yes and no. Coincidence. Funny, though, right?”

“Very funny.” She was smiling. Torry looked again behind him. Still no one.

“Her middle name...my mama’s name was Cairo, like the city in Egypt.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, and, uh, she liked to say - my mama liked to say that she was descended from the queens, the pharaohs you know? I think if my daddy woulda let her, she woulda named me Osiris or some shit. ‘Scuse me, crap. He let her do what she wanted with Susannah, though, so mama named her Seshat.”

“I can’t remember that one.”

“Iss okay. Seshat was uh, a librarian and scribe. Focused her talents mostly on accounting, math, history, and astronomy. Think that’s why my sister is a - a teacher.”

“Makes sense.”

“She got two kids, my sister. Her and her husband. He also a teacher, a math one, I think. Her kids...she got a boy named Michael Alexander Templeton Junior - common to name your boys after their daddy - and a girl...shoot, can’t remember her name.”

“That’s all right. Is there anything book-related I can help you with?”

He jerked his head. Shit, maybe he wasn’t gonna have such a good day. Jerking was never a good sign. Did he take his meds? Torry looked down at his hands. They were shaking. No, no, he took them. Susannah always made sure he did - she was good to him. Why was he shaking, jerking? He clenched them into fists and put them in his pockets. He looked around. More people were in the library, but there was no line behind him. Jimmy was helping a kind-looking old lady, but that was about it. Torry held down another jerk, and looked back at Charlotte.

“Yeah, sorry. Get distracted easily. Uh, just wanted to make sure you got some books in the children’s section and not the fantasy.”

“Which ones?” She sat up a little straighter, looking eager to please, and typed something into her computer.

“I shoulda checked, but I don’t go into the children’s section that much.”

“That’s okay.”

“Uh, The Hobbit, Last Unicorn by uh, Peter S. Beagle -” she was typing into her computer, eyes focused completely on the screen - “Discworld by Pratchett - can’t remember his first name - and uh, Golden Compass by Mr. Philip Pullman.” He waited a second. “Last one might also be under Northern Lights - they changed the name in America for some reason. Maybe they think we don’t know about the lights.”

“They do that a lot,” Charlotte said. “At least often enough. Harry Potter is The Sorcerer’s Stone here but The Philosopher’s Stone everywhere else. Publishers were afraid Americans wouldn’t understand the book was about magic, so they changed the title.”

“Thinkin’ we idiots when we beat their butts in the war.”

Charlotte grinned at him. “Right? Looks like we have all of those in -”

“Excuse me.”

A man appeared next to Torry. He squinted at the man - no, he was a white dude. Nothing like Eamon. Shorter than Torry - most men were, mama used to say Torry was built like a damn bull, he was so huge - with a crop of gelled over dark blonde hair. He looked professional, in a nice pair of navy trousers, white collared shirt, and a beige cardigan. Looked like he was a librarian, though Torry couldn’t recognize him. He squinted harder. Shit, was this another faker?

Charlotte looked between the man and Torry. “I’m sorry, sir. I was helping him -”

“I need your help.”  
Charlotte looked down the information booth, slowly. Torry followed her gaze. Kara, Jimmy, and Gracelle were all at their spots, smiling at the incomers. No one was in front of them. “I’m sure one of my colleagues would be able to help you, Mr.”

Torry snorted. He shouldn’t have, but it was funny. The man gave him a dirty look, before turning back to Charlotte.

She ignored him and turned her body a little more firmly towards Torry. “Sorry, uh. All those books are in the children’s section, except for, well, most of Discworld. We have a few copies of The Shepherd's Crown checked out -”

“I have a meeting in Room 192,” the man looked pissed. Not as pissed as Charlotte, who quickly tired to school her face into a kind expression, but still pretty pissed. Middle aged, white woman about to ask for the manager pissed. “I need to know where Room 192 is.”

“Sir, we have maps right over there by my colleague, Jimmy. Jim - can you -”

“I don’t want a map. I want you to tell me.”

Torry scowled down at him. He knew he was no faker - even in his fucked-up mind Torry couldn’t come up with a dickhead like this guy. He shook his head. Susannah told him he shouldn’t say that. He wasn’t fucked-up. He had a condition. Million had it, she had told him. When mama died, Susannah took over everything - including Torry. She insisted - hell, begged him to get help, and he accepted it. Anything for her. He felt better too. The fakers disappeared - mostly, Eamon still popped up, but the doctors - she even got him doctors, Susannah, she really was good to him - said it might be something else. Maybe he had PTSD or something. He had laughed because that’s what he needed, two things wrong with him. Everything had gone well until he forgot to take his meds, and then it was like a snowball. An avalanche. Susannah and Michael Senior opened their home - he was lucky, so lucky. Michael offered to help get him a job, but Torry declined. He was stubborn, too much like their mama and daddy to accept that. He could take help from his little sister, but...not when it came to a job. That he had to get on his own. He just had to.

He snorted and the man glared at him. “What?” he asked angrily.

Torry shouldn’t have said anything. He should have shaken his head and let Charlotte deal with the dickhead. But he was his parent’s child, silly as that sounded. And just like Bernard Torrance Wright Senior and Cairo Norman Wright, he did not have a filter when it came to assholes.

“You’re just being a dick, man. You need to wait your turn. Plenty a people will help ya. Kara, Jimmy, and, uh, Gracie. They’re just sittin’ there. You wanna pick a fight, kick the black guy outta line.”

“Are you calling me a racist?” The man looked like he was gonna start foaming at the mouth. Jesus. Torry looked around at the library. People stopped and were staring. Some had taken out their phones and were recording this. Everybody gets interested when a white person looks to be fighting with a black one, especially when that “R” word gets thrown about.

“I didn’t say nothing about that.” Torry said. “I just said you wanna pick a fight, otherwise you woulda gone to someone else, not Miss Bronte over here.”

“Why did you bring race into it? I’m not racist!”

Torry snorted. The man’s eyes started bugging out of his head. A faint snicker coursed through their growing audience. Dana Blechman slowly made her way into the room, hand going towards her walkie-talkie. He laughed a little. Shit.

“Sure you ain’t, man. Sorry I offended. Look, I’ll just step aside -”

“Do you know who I am?”

Ah fuck. Why couldn’t this white dude drop shit? Torry raised his eyebrows. The man pushed up on his tiptoes - any other time that would have been funny, had he not been on the receiving end - and got into Torry’s face. He looked deranged, eyes wide, a sneer curling his mouth.

“I am Ryan Pollick, the youngest lawyer to ever make it to Richmond and Kaymuk’s Law Firm - the youngest lawyer in the city, hell, the state! I have friends in high places, pal, black friends too. You need to show some respect!”

Torry looked down at him. Pollick was breathing heavily. Torry nodded once, then turned to Charlotte. “The Wee Free Men is in stock? Color of Magic,too?”

Charlotte’s mouth opened. She shut it quickly then looked at her screen. “N-no,” she said. “Wee Free Men is in stock in the children’s section - we have about two copies, but The Color of Magic is - well, it’s in stock, but it’s in the fantasy section. We only have -”

“Tiffany Aching in the children’s section,” Torry finished. Charlotte nodded. Torry smiled at her. “Thank you, Miss Bronte.” He turned back to Pollick. The man had sunk back to his feet, but looked no less ferocious. Like a chihuahua in a purse. Torry pointed up the stairs. “Room 192 is up the stairs. Landing you can see splits off into two sections - you’ll wanna take the one on the left and stay left. Those take you to conferences and offices. Even numbers on left, odd on right. There a couple breaks, but keep goin;’ those are just bathrooms and closets. Have a nice day, Bollock.”

Torry waved goodbye to the information booth and started to walk out. The room rumbled quietly as people started to discuss what they just witnessed. Torry raised his hand to Blechman, who nodded, looking relieved.

He hopped down the steps, now going down the right side, quietly saying hi to each of the statues before turning down the street.

 

***

 

Torrance ended up spending most of the day in the park, reading an old copy of Wyrd Sisters. He had read it before - hell, he had read all of Pratchett’s books at least a dozen times - and the pages were falling out. Might have to ask Susannah to a new copy. All his books were starting to look like they belonged in the trash.

He held the book in his hand, tracing over the cartoonish depictions of Pratchett’s characters. He hoped that boy checked him out. It was a good series. Good themes and shit.

Torry cracked his neck, and tossed his bag over his shoulder. He began making his way to the train tracks.

 

***

The sun had gone down when he had finished Wyrd Sisters. He smiled to himself and put the book back into his backpack. He didn’t usually finish things. TV shows, food, books; getting ready was like revving up an old car - a lot of stop and go. It was part of his condition. Least that’s what Susannah said.

He sat back on the grassy space next to the tracks. It was his favorite spot next to the library. Besides the library. The tracks were nowhere near the library. He had always liked trains, more so as a kid. They felt like the start of something. What? Anything. They could - would if you had paid the price - take you anywhere, take you away from everything. After Eamon...Torry shook his head. Before Eamon. Before.

He never was good with time. Past time. Backwards clocks. They were difficult to remember. Moving forwards - when the library opened, when his sister and brother-in-law went to work, when the kids went to school - those times were clear as day. A good day with lots of sun and shine.

It had to be before the accident, though. He was always like this, always a little off. He saw things that weren’t there, heard things no one else could. They were never malignant - no, that’s a tumor. What’s the word? Malicious. That’s it, malicious - they were never malicious, so he had never thought they were a problem. Until mama and daddy found out. Then it was a problem. He was too old for them to pass it off as imaginary friends - since when is too old too old for imaginary friends? Who decides this shit? - and that’s when it became an issue. That’s when he knew he was fu - messed up. He had a condition.

It wasn’t given a name until after - was it after? Yeah, it was after. Ambulance had taken him to the hospital to check and see if he had a concussion. No concussion. A few broken ribs, a broken nose, and a mind that had been broken forever. Didn’t know why. Well, knew why his body was broken, but not his mind. Nobody knows that.

He remembered the doctors - not the ones that fixed his body, other ones. Ones that asked him lots of questions about things he’s seen and heard. The doctors told his parents and Susannah. Why had she been there? Cause of Eamon. Eamon was gone. And then, shit, then he said those bad things. “E didn’t fit so God took him out. Shoulda named him John Coffrey or Ben Hanscom. Christian names. Names that fit us. He wouldn’t have died if he had the right name.” Mama broke down and cried. Daddy didn’t know what to say, opening and closing his mouth like a fish. Susannah just looked sad. When the doctors told them - “we think your son had schizophrenia” - they hadn’t said a thing. They had looked relieved. There was a word for it.

And what a word. Torry shifted in the grass and stared over the tracks. Schizophrenia. Starts with a snake noise. Hisss. Then a sharp C, like cookie. Piercing like thoughts and images, like Eamon broken and bloody, flying out the car windshield.. A soft I, sounding kinda like when you don’t know how to reply. “Eh.” But with an I. “Phren” like saying “friends,” which is funny ‘cause when you have the diagnosis of schizophrenia, ain’t no one wanna be your friend; you just have your sister, if that. Susannah’s a good friend, good sister. She don’t think so but she is; she just got a stubborn older brother, that’s it. Then - where was he? - ah. A soft sound to round the whole thing out. It was pretty. A pretty word for something he couldn’t explain.

Torry looked at his backpack. Maybe...maybe he’ll go home tonight. Go to Susannah and Michael’s home. Have dinner. Sleep. Take a shower. Oh, nice long shower. Nothing out of the ordinary. Take his meds. Ask Susannah if he took them this morning. Then...and yeah, maybe he’ll take Michael up on that offer. Get that janitorial job. Then...then move out and be a man again. Susannah would still insist on paying for his meds and doctor visits - making sure he took everything. That would be okay. So long as he was taking in his own, wasn’t crowding their space.  
He looked up at the hill across the tracks and the bridge above. There was some graffiti up there. How did anyone get up there? They got stilts or something? Stand on top of the train and spray a design before it goes? Gotta be Flash to do that shit. God...God would be there. Maybe that’s what this morning was all about. God telling him to go ask Michael. That’s what mama would say. God is reaching out to you, boy. That’s what she’d say.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Torry turned. Some guy was stumbling towards him. Looked drunk, his shirt pulled out of his trousers, cardigan askew. Ass-cue. Funny. Torry took a deep breath. Smelled drunk too. Nasty beer. Nothing fancy, just...nasty. He looked familiar. Wrong, though. Like deja vu, but you know something’s wrong. Torry squinted. The man came closer. Ah, shit.

“You, fuck, you got me fired you, shit fuck!”

Torry started to stand up. He knew he shouldn’t have said anything to that white guy. What was his name? Bollocks? Weird name.

“Look, man, I didn’t do nothing. Sorry you looked bad -”

“I did nothing wrong! You can’t even - you don’t - I needed to know where to go, and you made a scene!” There was spittle coming out of Bollock’s mouth. A bit landed on Torry’s cheek. Nasty. Nasty beer leads to spit and nasty attitude. Torry didn’t wipe it off. Might piss off Bolly; anything can piss off a drunk, and a pissed off drunk is worse than an angry drunk.

He backed up. No one’s coming. He could cross the hill and start to Susannah’s house. He turned his back, and made his way down his hill. Jack and Jill.

“I’m fucking talking to you!”

He ignored him. Something shattered - beer bottle - next to him. He started walking faster.

“Hey! Hey, shit fuck, come back here!”

What kind of a name is shit fuck? Your name is Bollocks. You have no room to call anyone a shit fuck, whatever that was. Can’t even come up with good nicknames, why are you scared? Torry - he wasn’t scared of him hurting him. Being hurt. He didn’t want conflict. Not alone, not with a drunk.

Heavy footsteps behind him. Torry thought he should turn back and say something. What? No. No that wouldn’t do anything. Don’t need the cops called. Don’t need to be hurt. Does he have a gun? A weapon? Doesn’t matter. Drunks will do anything, use anything. There was another noise getting louder, rumbling. Rumble. Rumble. Like a lion. Purring. Lions don’t purr, though. Rocks, pebbles, really, chattered at his feet. Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit -

“Fuck! I said -”

Torry turned around. What a sight! Two bugged-eyed men, mouths wide. One short, semi-polished white guy, looking like a vase someone knocked off a shelf. The other a big black dude in mixed-matched clothes, alternative style. Mirrors. Carnival mirrors.

“Man, we gotta go somewhere else. Train’s coming!”

“You think I give a fuck about the train?”

“You will when it kill you. Come on, let’s go!”

He shouldn’t have said that. Drunks don’t like to be told what to do. Not angry drunks. The man’s eyes got wide and he stomped over to Torry. He tried to side step him, but the guy got in his space. “Don’t. You. Fucking. Tell. Me. What. To. Do. You. Shit. Fucking. Ni -.” Each word punctuated with a shovel or a jab in the chest. Noises getting louder, so louder. Harder to hear the white guy, though he knew what he said. The word on so many white guy’s tongues, in the back of their throats. A word ready to spill over, be thrown out like a boomerang; but they don’t want that to come back. They want it to be like one of those shitty boomerangs on TV. They fly and hit something, and don’t ever come back. But they do. Maybe not a minute later, maybe only a little later, maybe years - but it comes back and strikes them on the back of the head. And they cry asking what happened. Cause they forgot. But he didn’t. Black folks don’t. You remember. You remember.

What Torry remembered suddenly, as he was pushed into the tracks, as the train sounded, loud and violent, no longer like a lion, but something man made, piercing and sudden, no preamble, was her name. Annaleise. A searing pain. Bright light. Loud. Annaleise was louder, though. Annaleise Anut Templeton. The warrior.

 

***

 

The police, ambulance, and fire arrived half an hour later. They had received a frantic call from the conductor about a man falling in front of his train. “I couldn’t stop”, the conductor had said, his voice hoarse from crying. They had assured him it wasn’t his fault.

It was gross - there was no other word for it. The body lay in two pieces. A big man, maybe seven feet tall when pieced together. The conductor had said he fell into the tracks and stumbled backward, tried to get his footing to jump off. He didn’t make it. The man had turned enough to where his torso was off the tracks - and that’s where it hit him. His lower half still lay on the tracks, a bloody mess. The clothes mashed with the meat and bone. Blood was everywhere.

The torso wasn’t clean, just...cleaner. Blood and entrails fell around the torso. Some still connected it to the pile that had been his lower half. His backpack was open slightly, torn book pages flying around him and those at the scene. Some pages framed his head and upper back, like a warped halo.

The worst part was his face. Bulging eyes and mouth, opened wide at the horror. As though he knew the train was coming. As though he wasn’t supposed to be there.

 

***

 

2 Years Later.

Pete Sampson stood at the edge of the railroad tracks. He swallowed and checked his watch. Five minutes. He straightened his back and rocked on the balls of his feet. It would be quick. It was quick for that one guy - Benjamin or whatever his name was. Guy made the news for how graphic it was. Pete swallowed again. Best to focus on the quickness rather than...the aftermath.

“Whatcha doin’ here, man?”

Pete turned his head. A young black man stood just a few feet away from him. He hadn’t heard him come up. Pete looked him up and down, taking in his Stanford hoodie, army jacket, and ripped jeans. Dude didn’t look like he belonged here; clothes were too nice, too clean. He shrugged in response.

The man came closer. He kept his space, a couple feet to Pete’s left, and mirrored him - hands in his jean pockets, arms pressed to his sides, shoulders hunched, and facing the tracks. Pete watched him out of the corner of his eye before glancing at his watch. Four minutes.

“Always liked it here,” the man said. He was still looking at the tracks. Or maybe the little hill across from them. “It was away from everyone without being away, you know? And...I could think about leavin’.”

Pete said nothing. He swallowed again, his throat dry and eyes suddenly itchy. He rubbed at them, tears collecting and sliding down his worn cheeks. Damn cold weather.

“Your mama loves you.”

“What?”

Pete looked at the man. The guy’s eyes were on him, large eyebrows furrowed in concern. Why did he care? He didn’t know him.

“Your mama,” the man repeated, “she loves you. She’s tired, but she loves you. Mamas are like that. They get tired - workin’, cleanin’, takin’ care of their babies - but they don’t stop lovin’ their kids.”

“She’s got my brother. She’s fine.” Pete had no idea why he was telling him this. He let out a shaky breath and checked his watch. Three minutes and thirty seconds. The pebbles on the tracks started to shake. He took another breath and started forward. Then hesitated. He swayed for a moment.

“Yeah, she does.” The man hadn’t moved, hadn’t reached out to stop him. “She has - what’s his name? Chad? Thad? -”

“Tad.” He didn’t ask how he knew.

The man nodded. “She has Tad but she also has you. Her babies. Probably sees you as a set. Salt and pepper shakers. Corn and - and - shit, I dunno, what goes with corn? Peas?” He shook his head. “Whatever. Your her boys, her boy.” Pete looked up at him. The man reached out and gently, slowly, put his hand on Pete’s shoulder. There was a loud noise to their right. Neither moved. “Go home and talk to her. Give your mama a hug. Betcha she’s sittin’ there in her chair, cryin’ and wonderin’ where her boy is.”

Pete stared for a moment. The pebbles rattled violently below; a loud horn sounded. It vibrated in his bones. He shifted...and nodded. Pete turned away from the tacks and made his way up the hill.

He should have said something. Thank you? He glanced back, wondering what he could possibly say. The man was gone. A small smile curled his mouth and he kept walking up the hill.

 

***

 

A lot could happen in two years. Graduation, a new job, new relationship, the ending of a relationship - the possibilities were endless. For Ryan Pollick, the last two years felt endless.

He wasn’t sure what drove him to come back to the train tracks. If he had been smart, he would have stayed away. The cops didn’t trace anything to him. They probably could have if they wanted to. But no one cares about mentally ill guys, regardless of how friendly they seemed. Ryan scowled. Friendly. That was one word.

He pulled up to the hill next to the tracks. Nothing had changed. Little fence was still there, a sorry attempt to keep people away from the tracks. Lot of good that did. Teenagers and homeless fucks alike were hopping over that thing, the teenagers for the thrill, the homeless for...who the fuck cared? The only new thing - Ryan sneered - was a little white cross next to the fence. RIP Torry Wright.

Anger, red, burst in Ryan. Fucking Torry Wright. He shut off the engine and got out. For a moment, he just stared at the sign. Then, he kicked. The cross fell over - it wasn’t very deep in the ground - and he kicked again and again. It didn’t break, but now the pretty white thing was covered in dirt, gross, just like the man it honored.

Ryan snorted and looked down the hill. It was dark, and he couldn’t see much. He had thought about coming here in the day, but the dark feeling had swelled up inside and he decided to wait until night. It was difficult to explain the dark feeling. Many would have attributed it to guilt; he knew his wife, Emily, would have done so. But that wasn’t it. It was...fear. Cold and dark. It pierced his bones and mind, caused his teeth to rattle. The fear of being caught and losing what little he had gained in these last two years.

His sneer deepened, and he climbed over the fence. He walked down the hill, hands in his suit pockets, before stopping a few yards from the pebbles, the tracks.

He remembered everything. How video of him at the library, being talked to like some idiot by that fucker, went viral. How people saw him as some antagonistic racist - him, racist! - messing with some idiot homeless guy. People scouted him out, listened to that audio. If there was one regret he had, it was stating his name and place of work. Those viral videos should have taught him better. SJWs would hunt you down if you so much as looked at a black dude; didn’t need to give them a hand.

Ryan remembered coming into the office after the meeting. James Richmond and Carrie Dean Kaymuck Richmond themselves had called him into their office. He had been elated, thinking about his Emily and their baby girl. He had been certain he was getting a promotion - he had done so well on the Himmolt case - hell, he had done fucking supreme on every case, every client given to him. Instead, he was met with fury. Cold and hot. Two sides of the same emotion, emitting from the husband and wife owners, as they showed his the viral video. How he had been nicknamed Line-cutting Larry. Carrie Dean’s eyes burned as she told him to pack his things. Ryan had turned to James, and that fucker just stared, eyes cold.

He had done what they asked. He grabbed his shit and went to another law firm. And another. And another. Each and everyone of them denied him, pointing at that goddamn video. He had graduated top of his class at Stanford, and he couldn’t get a job in the city. If it hadn’t been for Stephen Pollick giving his only son a job at his tech company...Ryan didn’t like to think about it. He glared at the tracks.

There was not an ounce of regret in him. Not when he shoved that nigger. Not now. And there would never be regret. He ran his hand through his hair. He had no idea why he came here. To show off? He smirked. Two years and he was finally back where he belonged. It may not have been Richmond and Kaymuck, but it was a firm, nonetheless. He had another girl; three beautiful girls - Emily, Cassia, and Violet. He was still in the backroom, but soon, soon he would be out in front, publically getting people off.

Ryan laughed a little. Raking in the money while that fuck who ruined his life was dead. Smushed. Mashed. He laughed harder.

“What’s so funny?”

Ryan grinned and looked. A tall black man stood off to the side of him. He hadn’t heard him approach. Ryan looked at the lights framing the tracks, then back at the man. He looked familiar; it felt like a senior looking through the freshmen section of the yearbook. Ryan pointed to the man’s hoodie. “What year?” he asked.

The man didn’t respond. He took a step closer, and Ryan’s smile fell. There was something off about him.

“Why you here?” the man asked.

Ryan stared before shrugging, his back straightening and jaw tightening. He shouldn’t have said anything. You don’t make conversation with some dude, let alone a black dude you meet at the tracks.

“Two years.”

It was wrong, off. Something changed. Ryan stiffened, not out of superiority but out of that dark feeling quickly seeping into his body like an oil slick.

he man stared at Ryan, eyes burning brightly. “Two years ago, Bernard Torrance Wright Junior decided to take his brother-in-law up on his offer, get a job. He never even made it home.”

“No, he didn’t.” That wasn’t incriminating. Ryan knew the law. It was just a fact. Wright didn’t make it home.

“He had a family. Sister, brother-in-law, two great nieces and nephews.” The man held up two fingers. “One of each.”

“It was sad.”

“Not to you, you shit fuck.”

The dark feeling started to gnaw at Ryan. Get away - get away. He started to leave, when the man pushed him in the chest. Ryan stumbled backwards. The pebbles were starting to shake. A horn blazed in the distance. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck -

The man stood in front of him.

“Listen,” Ryan started. “I - I don’t know what the fuck you’re on about -”

“Yes you do,” the man said quietly. It was getting harder to hear him. The man straightened. He shimmered. There was no other word for it. His body shimmered and gleamed like some gossamer fabric had been in front of him. His youthful face faded away into something older, worn. A gray and black beard framing deep laugh lines. A dusty green beanie on a graying hair. His legs - oh, Jesus - his legs vanished. At his pelvis was a mass of intestines, hanging out of his body, dripping something, like a leaky faucet.

Ryan looked up in horror. The man’s face was set.

“Oh fuck -”

“Fuck you, you shit fuck!”

The man shoved him and Ryan screamed. The train came, loud, not stopping. The pebbles bounced, jittered. He watched. Ryan was there, and then he wasn’t, caught under the wheels of the train. There was a thump, but nothing else. The horn’s screams continued on, man-made screams muffaling man-made screams. He closed his eyes. A weight lifted itself off his shoulders.

“What do you think happens now?”

Torry opened his eyes. There was a man in a nice black suit. Man in Black. It looked a little too tight on him, too modern. Torry’s body shimmered, but the man held up a hand.

“Don’t change on my account,” he said. Torry froze, his body remaining as it had been when he died.

“You ain’t scared.”

“Not really.” The man came closer. “I’ve been watching you. You’re a good man, Bernard.”

“I don’t know you.” It sounded childish coming from his mouth. The train was still going by.

The man smiled. “Carleton Ruscoe,” he said. “I’m a paranormal investigator.”

“Carlton Bank’s doin’ ‘Ghost Hunters’, now?”

His smile widened. “You know your pop culture references, don’t you?” Torry shrugged. Carleton’s face became somber. “You still didn’t answer my question. What happens now? You’ve fulfilled your purpose of staying here.” He gestured to the train. “Where do you go?”

Carleton wasn’t wearing any paranormal gear. Maybe things had changed. Two years is a long time. Surprisingly longer once you’re dead and don’t have a calendar. They should fix that. Calendars for ghosts. Maybe Steve Jobs can make a phone for ghosts. Dead obviously can’t read Living folks’ calendars or there’d be a lot few hauntings.

Torry watched the train for a moment. “Guess I go up now,” he finally said.

“Go up where?”

Was this man dumb? Torry pulled a face. “Up. Heaven. Chill with my bro Jesus over a cold one.”

“You think He’ll let you up?”

Torry’s eyes widened. He had to let him up, right? He stared at Carleton. “Everybody told me God lets good people into Heaven. Believers get a really special place, but all good people go to Heaven. Like dogs but only some people.”

Carleton nodded. “What makes you a good person?” He pointed to the tracks. The train finally passed by. There was a lump where Ryan had been standing, unidentifiable as anything remotely human. Maybe a microscope or some CSI detectives could see a person, but most would see...gunk. Did he look like that? Torry glanced down at his body. Just his legs. He didn’t remember his legs, but they must have looked like a squashed bug on a windshield.

“I been helpin’ people,” he said. He looked at the other man. The man stared back, his lips quirked. “I’ve been helping.”

“One bad deed overwhelms them all. It’s true that you’ve saved fifty, maybe a hundred lives. But you have also taken a life. Not out of mercy, but out of vengeance.” He paused. Torry’s eyes widened impossibly. No. No. This man - he doesn’t know God. He doesn’t know the Bible. The Bible says - “The fifth commandment: Thou shalt not kill.”

Torry started to rock back and forth, his intestines swinging. His breathing was ragged. “No. No you wrong. Thou shalt not murder. That’s - that’s what it says. Killin’ is takin’ an innocent, but murder is takin’ - takin’ a not-innocent.”

“Do you really think that matters to God?” Carleton took a step closer. “We interpret His commands however we want them, but we don’t really know what He meant...what He means. The church says one thing - He could have very well meant something a little different.” Carleton looked at the tracks. Torry couldn’t look. He couldn’t. He was good. He had been good. Life and death. He had to go up. Why wasn’t he going up? “And, to be quite frank, Bernard...how do you know this man was not innocent? He pushed you, yes, and for that he will suffer. But he was also a devoted father and husband. A loyal son. Attended church every week. God...God would judge him. That’s His role. And you did it for Him.”

He couldn’t. No. No. That’s not what - God judges, He is the Judge. But Torry did the judging. He tried him - he had been the court, the jury, judge, and executer. No defense. God had a defense attorney - He looked at everything, the whole of someone’s life. He was Judge - and Torry...Torry...

Carleton reached into his pocket. “Why do you think you’re still here?”

Torry screamed. He grabbed onto his beanie and pulled. No. No. No. No.

“I’m sorry, Bernard.”

Torry bent over, still screaming. Carleton threw something at him, small and square. It hit him in the head. He couldn’t think. He...he was good. He was...There was a sucking noise and then nothing. Silence.

Carleton strode over to the box and picked it up. He put it in his pocket and, with one last look at Ryan’s remains, walked up the hill.

 

_ 2001 13 GHOSTS  _ VS  **2018 13 GHOSTS**

The Torso: a man missing his limbs; could be a result of how he died or a birth defect.

__Jimmy “The Gambler” Gambino_ _loved to make bets. He had been making them since he was a child. Unfortunately, his last bet would prove deadly. He gambled against the wrong man, and as a result, he was chopped up, wrapped in cellophane, and thrown into the ocean. He is still looking for his head__

**Bernard Torrance “Torry” Wright was a homeless man with schizophrenia. He was loved by many, but not all. One of those men ended up taking his life, pushing Torry in front of a moving train, severing his body in half. Unlike Jimmy, Torry was a relatively benevolent ghost, a gentle giant in life and death.**

 

**Taurus, the Bull:** With the First Born Son being Aires, The Torso would align with the zodiac Taurus, the bull.  **Torry was a large man, built like a bull, according to his mom.**


End file.
